


Sour Grapes

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ardyn backstory, Body Horror, Gen, Infection, Parasites, Starscourge (Final Fantasy XV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 08:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15577956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: In which Ardyn discovers the unpleasant side effects of the task Bahamut has assigned him.Written for FFXV Scourge Weekend (Day 3: Infecting Others)





	Sour Grapes

**Author's Note:**

> You can consider this a prelude to the Ardyn backstory I describe in _Welcome to the Machine_

 

I didn’t want it anyway. This power, this gift from the Gods. To heal others when they can’t heal themselves. I didn’t want the fame or the fortune and it’s not worth it anyway, not for this.

That’s a lie, but that’s what I’m telling myself now as I’m slouched here, holed away in the men’s restroom, pressing a tissue to my eyes and trying not to think about the blackness spreading across the soft white fibres. It leaches into it like water into sand during a rising tide, like ink spilled on blotting paper by a hasty calligrapher’s hand. If I squint I can fancy the dark liquid wriggling with the energy of a thousand tiny creatures. It’s _alive_ , and how did this happen, how did I _let_ this happen?

I play the part of my own mentor, because I have to, because I can’t tell anyone else what is happening. I say, ‘You’ll be fine. You can do this. Come on.’

There’s still plenty of time left before evening prayers, but I can’t stay here too long. They’ll be waiting. They’ll start wondering. I dab the tissue at my eyes again, and yes, it comes away stained a salty grey. Less grey than before but it’s still there.

I feel the urge to be sick.

Even my fingernails seem dirty, their ends all ragged where they grip the tissue tight enough to tear, and it feels like that is part of the sin too and all at once, it’s overwhelming. Tears streak again down my cheeks. It’s pathetic, I know this, I know this.

I focus on the tiles before me. White marble with thin, translucent veins. So refined and well-cut, so _clean_ , just like the rest of the sanctuary is, and I feel so horribly like I don’t belong. Curse the hells, even my vision seems all tinged dark at the edges, a vignette, like those filters that photographers and daguerreotype artists love so much.

I huff; a short and frustrated breath that feels far too hot on my hands. Another huff, and I force myself upright. Try not to think about the scourge, try not to imagine it clustering in the layers of my skin like living, wriggling, microscopic entities.

Come on. Get up. Time to go.

I have to check my eyes again before I go, dab and dab again with the corners of the tissue, ensure there’s no blackness lingering, and I spend only as much time as necessary on the task before I leave the restroom.

Outside, the air is cool, and I cross the courtyard to find Magnus waiting.

‘Ardyn.’

I smile my best winning smile and feign nonchalance. ‘Back from practise early, I take it?’

Magnus nods. I can see the sweat on his brow, and I know he truly has been giving it his all. He’s training to be a Shield for the King. For the future king at least, and that’s either to be me or Somnus.

Not going to lie, I want it to be me. I think I stand a better chance, anyway; as Oracle I’m already blessed by the Gods.

I just try not to think about the black discharge. Hold on to the dream, come on.

I’m about to ask Magnus if Vespers is taking place in the Grand Hall or Himmelens Tempel when a small cough interrupts me. I turn and see a young acolyte, probably five years my junior judging by the style of her headscarf, looking up at me with wide, pleading eyes.

‘Please, Your Grace … I am so sorry to interrupt…’

 _Your Grace._ Ah, I’m such a liar. I do want the fame. I tell her to please, continue, it’s no bother.

‘Well, um … I’m only a humble servant, but – I ask your blessing.’

I smile back at the acolyte, all warmth and reverence, and I tell her that yes, she is blessed, and the Gods will smile upon her today. Her cheeks flush pink, the pupils of her eyes widen, and she thanks me, then rushes back to her daily tasks.

The rush I feel is immediate and it’s almost enough to make things okay.

‘She liked you.’ Magnus is watching her scurry off down the hall, no small amount of amusement in his voice.

‘It’s the hair that does it,’ I say, and I swish my locks side to side for good, ridiculous measure.

‘As full of fire as Ifrit himself,’ Magnus says with a chuckle. He thumbs through his own dark, shaved fuzz. ‘’Tis a shame military regulations force this style on me, then.’

I grin, and slap him on the shoulder.

‘People will be lining up for you once those muscles start to show through.’ I pinch his upper arm. ‘Just complete your training first, eh?’

Magnus mock-salutes me. It’s good to have some close friends who can still joke around with me – it’s something that’s getting harder the more status I gain.

Status – that’s something I’m reminded of yet again when Magnus asks, ‘So how’d the vigil at the tower go?’

It’s as though all the muscles in my face freeze in position. A half-twisted smile; I probably look ridiculous. I don’t want to think about this.

I catch myself. Paint that grin back on.

‘It went fine.’

He doesn’t look like he believes me.

 

Arzanesh joins us on the way to the Great Hall, which is, apparently, where Vespers are to be held tonight. My, I’m so out of it after that night at the tower. It feels like time has been standing still for days. I’m struggling with the sheer amount of steps we have to climb, and, amusingly for such a big man, so is Arzanesh.

‘By all the powers of Gog and Magog, why does the Great Hall have to be so far?’

‘Perhaps because you still worship those old gods?’

Arzanesh laughs, and it’s a deep boom that echoes against the stone walls. ‘One would be a fool to do so, after seeing the power manifest of the Six. But, old habits do not die peacefully.’

I laugh too. I can’t resist teasing him about his origins. He doesn’t mind it. A Galradian from the Old Empire, his culture is a fascinating one, even if their gods are now obsolete.

We walk together into the Hall, and, as ever, it is solemn and full of hallowed portent. No music, no sound at all but for the shuffling of feet as we take our places.

When prayers start proper, I’m standing at the head of the congregation, my closest followers flanking me; Magnus, Gentiana, Irene, Silfur, Ignatius. And plenty others followed behind those, but then, there’s so many I forget their names. Further off near the vestibule, Arzanesh and his silent brother Gilgamesh stand, guarding the gathering. Gilgamesh, now, he’s an interesting one, and I can never quite figure him out. It’s as though he knows something I don’t, and I swear, one day I will get him to talk. Anyway, the rest of us, we rise as the High Priest enters, and we recite the verses after him. His voice is aging, stringent, weaker with every service he presides over, and the lines around his eyes crease up when he focusses on the scriptures.

He’ll need a replacement soon, no doubt.

Heh, enough of that. The mass has started. Now, I always did like Vespers – there’s something comforting about the last prayer said before night falls. I let the words wash over me, I absolve myself of sin under the watchful eye of the Six, I fall into the prayer like I’m falling into the softest of bedspreads, and it’s a kind of ecstasy I’ll never grow tired of. I feel it strongly; oh, how the gods favour me, oh, how they bestow their gifts upon me. Under this alabaster ceiling, under this clean and polished stone, may the daemons be driven out and all be made whole again.

Surely even the darkness I drank in can be driven out too? Surely it must. For the Gods are as merciful to me as I am to those that follow in my lead.

I raise my voice for the final chorus, and watch the last rays of sunlight fade from the high windows. The final uplit arch turns from gold to burnished brass and then, Vespers is over. The candles are snuffed out. We file out of the hall slowly, and as usual I am the last, because I must ensure I bow deeply, privately, to the High Priest. He, my mentor, nods and offers a smaller bow in return. We do not talk of what he asked me to do the previous night. I am free to go.

It is tempting to return to my own quarters, and call it a night there and then, because curse it all, my eyes still feel itchy and the pores still feel fit to bursting and I’m dreading they will spill over again, bead my skin with inky black. The only reason I don’t hide away is that I know being alone will only give more chance to panic. My mind will run away with me and think too hard and fast on everything, because what happened earlier is still too sudden and too troubling and I haven’t had time to process it all.

So I go to the Hall of Lucis, where my followers are relaxing for the evening. It’s a social place, and indeed, when I reach it, I find Silfur has already picked up the lyre and is strumming away, his blond hair swaying as he tries to remember the lyrics of the tune, and Magnus is making good work of the fruit bowl. Someone has made spiced tea; the aroma fills the air and it is comforting, homely, as though the cold season has come early.

My eye twitches.

I seek out Gentiana, because I have an idea.

She’s on the carpet near the fireplace, twisting a set of black and gold cords into a prayer bracelet. For some reason I can’t look at the cords too long, it’s unsettling. All those twisting black tendrils.

‘My dear Gentiana.’ I sink down beside her, focussing on her face, and she looks my way, eyes soft and deep beneath that heavy black fringe.

‘My Lord.’

‘Please.’ I have told her a thousand times that ‘Ardyn’ would do just fine. But in truth, the shiver her words give me is enough for me to say no more on the subject. ‘I was wondering, my dear – do you have any kohl with you? That shadow you use on your eyes. It is kohl, is it not?’

She nods. ‘For you?’

‘Don’t you think it would look good?’ I cock my head, letting a few locks of hair curl over my shoulder. The effect I’m going for works well, for she smiles, a little bashfully, and playfully knocks my shoulder.

‘I believe it would. Oh, let’s see, now.’ She puts aside the wad of cords and reaches for her bag. It’s a beautiful thing, an embroidered duffel of delicate shimmering threads, opened by a drawstring, and inside lies an array of implements, some for writing, some for crafts, some for beauty. She finds a small pot of kohl and places it into my hand. It is scarce bigger than a coin, but it likely needs be no larger; the material inside looks strong and dark as squid ink.

‘Please, keep it.’

I smile warmly, placing a hand on her shoulder in thanks. ‘You really are too good, Gentiana.’

I much prefer the restrooms at the Hall of Lucis. They’ve a lot more personality to them than the rest of the palace, and in no small part due to my own followers. The place is decorated with tapestry and colour, and small incense stands line the walls and countertops. The tone is one of warmth and comfort, not cold tile and straight-backed regality.

Somnus never comes here, to this part of the palace. For a brief moment, I wonder if he’s got some love lost for his little brother, but the instant I catch myself thinking like this, I break it off. There’s little use in extrapolating. I know he’s busy. I know these are hard times for all of us.

No matter. I wash my hands under the gold-plated taps and dry off on an embroidered towel. My hands are clean. No need to check again for dirt under the fingernails. Time to sort out this little problem, mask the issue so I can breathe freely under the scrutiny of others again.

I’m reaching for the small pot of kohl when there’s a shift in the air. For a moment, the room seems to twist in on itself, constrict like the throat of a fish out of water. I blink, all too rapidly, then when my eyes focus enough to see my reflection, I splutter in shock.

Little white worms, like pudgy grains of rice, are wriggling out of my eyes and down my cheeks in milky, pulsing swathes. They’re falling _everywhere_.

No, this can’t be happening. A small, undignified sound escapes my throat and I want to claw at my skin, to fling these little parasites far away from me. I’m breathing too fast. The muscles in my arms are twitching with the urge to expunge these invaders.

Blink. Blink again. Try not to feel the squirming. And now, look again in the mirror.

No worms.     

My face is clean.

Ramuh’s beard, what just happened there?

I’m staring at my reflection now, trying to gather hold of my breaths, steadying myself on the edge of the sink.

It’s okay.

It’s not real.

I scrutinise my own face. Explore the contours and lines. The square jaw, the well-defined nose, the arch of my thick eyebrows. Nothing unusual there.

Nothing unusual but for around my eyes, where again, it seems just a little darker than it did before.

By the Gods, I’m so tired. And yes, that’s all it is. Nerves. Fatigue. The after-effects of my vigil and the price I pay for my late hours and dedication to my craft.

I pick up the pot of kohl again and twist it open. I’m surprised to find the contents are not wet, but rather, a dry powder like chimney soot. This is, actually, preferable, because I would not have enjoyed the slick sensation after the … hallucination, or whatever I ought to call it.

I have no idea how to apply this stuff, so I go by what I’ve witnessed before, with Gentiana. Forefinger dipping into the powder and coming away with clustered clumps. I aim for the left eye first, dabbing gently and being surprised at how the material just seems to stick. I’m not sure how far out to the side I should extend the shadowing, so I keep it simple, trying to blend the tone by rubbing my finger outward, softly, in a flicking motion.

So far, it does not look like a complete shambles, and I am mildly pleased with myself.

I start on the next eye, and that’s when I feel it. Another small twitch, just under the bottom eyelid. Near the tear duct that leads down to the nose. My finger hovers, an inch from my eye.

I peer closer at my reflection and – Gods, no, there’s something moving under there. The white worms again? Are they not a hallucination?

But no, this feels thinner, and, if I can use a human description, _craftier_ somehow. It’s as though it knows I’m looking at it, and oh Gods, there it is, moving again. A whorl of a spiralling form writhing under my eyelid, near the tear duct, and I watch in horror as the small, brown-streaked end of _something_ pokes its way out of the duct. Around the edges, a black ooze seeps out, not enough to break water resistance and drip down my cheek, but enough to set my pulse racing again.

            It’s such a small thing, such a tiny, insignificant thing, and yet I feel impaled by it. The thought that it's _in me_ is arresting, and deeply upsetting. My stomach’s twisting in knots but I can’t run away from this, I can’t dab it away when it’s so deeply embedded in me. I have to…

            I know what I have to do. I shake off the kohl from my fingertip, then position finger and thumb either side of the creature’s disgusting, flailing end. Then I pinch, hold it as fast as I can, and slowly, slowly, I pull. It’s embarrassing, the noise I make as I do so, and I’m just glad I’m alone in the restroom.

            It’s not coming out without a fight. I manage to pull a quarter-inch out, and it tries to dig in deeper, pulling the delicate nerves of my face into tight disarray as it does so and heavens above, it hurts. I take to breathing shallowly through my teeth, hissing in and out as I keep my grip. More black ooze pools in my eye and I blink, staining half my world dark. No, I need to keep focus, come _on!_

Another half inch and the ooze starts to drip down my cheek. It almost tickles in its discomfort, but it’s better than having it stain my vision. The worm’s whipping to and fro now, and I’m keening out my voice, frightened it will burst my pores, frightened it will escape my grip and dive into the tender softness of my eyeball and turn me blind.

            I keep going, driven by nothing other than fear.

            And eventually, mercifully, I win. The little devilish creature pops out of my cavity with a sickening sound, and falls squirming in the palm of my opposite, waiting hand.

            A shaky sigh as I let my muscles un-tense themselves. I have no desire to look but I really should. And so, I huff, unhappy about it but powerless to do anything else, and I look at the inch-long worm snaking about in my hand, brown and brackish like a frond of weed pulled from muddy water.

            There’s no doubt about it, this is the aftermath of last night’s ritual. How foolish, for me to think I could come away from something like that without being stained somehow. I look at the small daemonic thing, still wriggling, still trying to find its way into my pores and I tell myself _this is only temporary._ I tell myself it’s like a stomach bug, it will pass through my system and it will be gone in a matter of days. It just needs time to process.

            This makes sense, and I hold on to the thought.

            But for now, I must be rid of this thing. I fetch a scrap of tissue, and I grit my teeth as I pinch the worm between the fibres, crushing it into a premature death.

            There’s little time to hide what I’m doing when Magnus enters the room.

            ‘Are you okay?’

            I nod. Maybe too quickly. It doesn’t matter – anything to cover up the flinch as I crush the defiled tissue in my hand, hiding the evidence. Magnus smiles. ‘Are you trying on kohl?’

            ‘Gentiana gave it to me. I thought it might look good.’ I try to make light of the situation, I try to paint on that wry smile that usually works so well, but somehow, this time, it only highlights the issue. Magnus is looking incredibly concerned, and my blood feels all warm in my veins, he’s too close to finding out.

            ‘You’re crying,’ he says. He’s not judgemental about it, but the worry is apparent.

            I flit back to my reflection again, and find he is right. I had not realised; after the worm was pulled, all my attention was diverted from my face. But he’s right – tears drip down my face in streaks of black – kohl on the one side and daemon murk on the other, and it looks clownish, catastrophical, laughable.

            I pretend the daemon murk is kohl, and I brush off the issue by treading as close to the truth as I can.

            ‘The vigil was … tougher than I admitted earlier. I’ve been tired.’

            ‘Hence the kohl?’

            I nod.

            ‘Well,’ Magnus says, coming closer, ‘you’ve got a bit to learn, there.’ And he takes a fresh leaf of tissue and dabs at my cheeks before I can stop him, cleaning the spilled kohl and the streaked daemon murk both. I try to stop him, but he gives me that no-nonsense stare and says, ‘Trust me – I’ve two younger sisters at home. I know how this works.’

            It is too late. He’s already touched the stuff, it’s clinging to his fingers and yes, he’s throwing the tissue away and he’s washing his hands before he returns to fixing up my right eye but still, he has touched it.

            My heart is burning inside my chest. This might amount to nothing, but I have no idea what the scourge will do to someone who is not, well…

           Someone who is not me.

           It might be fine. I may yet be overreacting. I just have to have faith in the Gods, and this is what I tell myself as I focus on Magnus, my friend, my follower, my future Shield, fixing up my face like I’m a little girl at a beauty pageant. It might be, no, it _will_ be fine.

           


End file.
